The Whisper (10 page)

“No. She talked me into taking her to a small island down the bay so she could look into a story I’d told her.”

Josie bit her lower lip. This was how Keira Sullivan’s ordeal had started three months ago—with an old story. She’d been researching a book she was writing and illustrating, as well as dipping into her own complicated past.

“Would finding lost treasure help Sophie land a job?” Myles asked.

O’Donovan squatted down and started unlooping a thick rope from metal cleats, his fingers callused, his hands obviously very strong. “She says it’s the opposite. She’s a serious scholar. She’s no treasure hunter. If she’d believed she’d find anything, she’d have called for a proper excavation.”

“How often did you take her out to this island?”

“Five or six times. The last time, she discovered a cave and nearly didn’t come out again.”

He didn’t elaborate, but Josie could see the regret in how he tore at the rope, how he’d bit off each word. “What happened, Tim?”

He shook his head. “Who’s to say?”

“Why did she go out to this particular island?”

“She was writing her dissertation. She said exploring the island got her away from her work and helped clear her head.” The muscles in his arms were visibly tensed, and he stood up again, the rope in hand. “On that last trip, she talked me into leaving her overnight. She’d never done such a thing. She had me believing she’d have a good time camping. She’d be safe. I left her there.”

Myles had taken a few steps toward the middle of the wide pier, keeping quiet as he watched the fisherman. Josie didn’t move. “Did she get hurt?” she asked softly. “Did someone follow her out there—”

“Talk to her.” The fisherman tossed the rope down into his boat and moved to tackle the next line. Dark clouds had moved in overhead, the spits of raining turning to a steadier drizzle. He didn’t seem to notice. “I wasn’t there.”

“Sophie could have wandered into a dangerous situation through no fault of her own,” Josie said. “Or yours.”

Myles narrowed his gray eyes on O’Donovan but made no move toward him. “You’re worried that whatever happened to her isn’t over.”

“Maybe,” he said, squatting down, pulling on a thick knot. “Again, I wasn’t with her on the island. I only know what she’s told me.”

“And what’s that?” Josie asked.

“She says she came across a cauldron of gold artifacts in the cave. She didn’t have a chance to examine them before she heard whispers. At first she thought it was me—that I’d decided not to leave her out there after all and had come back.”

“But it wasn’t you,” Myles said.

O’Donovan sighed heavily. “No, it wasn’t. She saw branches smeared with blood—or what looked like blood—and she hid deeper in the cave. She hit her head somehow and lost consciousness. When she came to, there were no more whispers. I came for her the next day, as agreed. I had to look for her. By the time I found her, there was no sign anyone else had been on the island.”

Josie shuddered. “Frightening. Was Sophie in the cave all night?”

“She was,” Tim O’Donovan said tightly. “She believes whoever stole the cauldron left her for dead.”

“Do you think she made up this story?” Myles asked.

“No, but that doesn’t mean it happened the way she believes it did.”

Myles frowned, the gray of his eyes now a deep slate. “Fairies? Ghosts? What are you suggesting?”

“As a boy, I heard tales the island’s haunted. Sophie could have been pulled there by dark forces.” Tim rose, shrugging his big shoulders. “The island’s very small. It took me less than an hour to find her. She was hurt, cold, angry, afraid. She doesn’t remember how she got her concussion. More than likely she experienced something she couldn’t explain and hid for her life in that cave, and she’s tried to make sense of what happened ever since.”

“What about you?” Myles kept his gaze steady on the fisherman. “Did you sneak back to the island and steal this cauldron filled with gold? Fake the blood to frighten her, then take it with you to make her look less credible?”

Josie could have pushed Myles off the pier herself, but O’Donovan didn’t seem to take offense. “I did not.”

“You believed Sophie’s story enough to call the guards,” Josie said. “Did they look into boats that might have passed the island while Dr. Malone was there, anyone who might have heard her discuss her trips there, or this particular trip, or might have seen her—”

“Ask Seamus.”

“Seamus said Sophie wasn’t seriously hurt and there was no evidence a crime had been committed. Unintelligible whispers, blood and gold only she saw—the guards had nothing to go on.”

“She survived, thanks be.” O’Donovan abandoned the rope
and rose again, his movements smooth for such a large man. “I don’t even know you and here I’ve told you more than anyone else since that day. Do people always voluntarily tell you things, Josie Goodwin?”

She smiled. “Not always voluntarily.”

He didn’t smile back. “I wish I knew more.” When Josie started to thank him, he cut her off. “Just see to it no harm comes to Sophie.”

“We’ll do our best.”

Josie didn’t know why she included Myles in her statement, but Tim O’Donovan nodded and said, “If there’s anything I can do to help…”

“Call Seamus if you remember anything else about Sophie’s experience on the island,” Josie said.

He jumped down into his boat. The worsening conditions didn’t seem to faze him. Myles started toward the road, and Josie lingered a moment, watching the fisherman go about his routines to set off down the bay, hoping she hadn’t missed anything—even just a question that could help jog his memory.

She joined Myles at her car. She glanced back at the harbor, O’Donovan’s boat chugging along in the wind and rain. “I’ve not the smallest urge to go to a tiny Irish island on my own.”

“Would you go with someone else?” Myles asked as he climbed into the car.

Josie got behind the wheel again. “Not with you, Myles. The two of us alone in a car is enough tension for me, thank you.”

“You’re going to torture me forever, are you?”

“I haven’t decided.” She pulled off her damp coat, struggling with it, but he didn’t offer his help. She must have looked as if she’d elbow him in the head if he did. She might, anyway. She balled up the coat
and shoved it in back with his rucksack. “You could have trusted us, Myles. Will and me. If not me, then Will. If not Will, then me.”

“It wasn’t a question of trust,” Myles said quietly, with none of his usual cockiness, “and to tell one of you what I was into was to tell the other. You both were emotionally compromised by our friendship. I couldn’t take the chance.”

Josie started the car. “Whether you could or couldn’t, you didn’t. Lizzie and Keira wouldn’t wait two years for word on the fates of the men they care about.”

“Do you think so, Josie?”

No, she thought. They’d wait forever. They’d wait until they knew for certain.

“Did you believe I was dead?”

“I’d hoped you’d lost your memory and opened a bake shop in Liverpool.”

He laughed suddenly, unexpectedly, and at first she wanted to stop the car and kick him out the door, but she found herself laughing, too.

“Damn you, Myles. I suppose if you hadn’t gone off—” She shook her head, abandoning her thought. “Never mind. I was going to say Will wouldn’t have found Lizzie, but I don’t believe that. I believe they were destined for each other.”

“Josie Goodwin, the romantic?”

“Don’t choke on your tongue, Myles. I’m a human being. A
woman
, believe it or not. Lizzie’s the woman for Will. You’ve seen that for yourself, haven’t you?”

“I have, indeed.”

Josie felt a stiff wind buffet the small car. “Keira and Simon were destined for each other, too. You should see them together. He’s an utter charmer—he does an amazing fake Irish accent and will argue with anyone over anything, and everyone still loves
him.” She turned on the windscreen wipers, the rain coming down hard now. “They’ll both come back, won’t they?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“You’re always sure. It’s your nature.”

“What Simon and Will are about needs to finish this way.”

“Their way, you mean.”

“And yours, Josie. Don’t tell me you’re not staying out of London for a reason. You don’t want to have to answer a lot of questions about what Will and Simon are up to yourself.” Myles leaned back in his seat. “Now we have this Sophie Malone and her mad island adventure.”

“Nothing is ever simple with Will and Simon and their friends, is it?”

“As if it is with us?”

She came to a stop at the end of the road out to the pier and gave him a sideways glance. Those dove-gray eyes. The lines etched in his face. The hard edges that were Myles Fletcher. Of course she’d had to fall for him. How could she not have? But her life would have been so much less complicated these past few years if she hadn’t.

He touched a finger to her lips. “Don’t say anything more, love. Let’s just keep sparring a while longer, shall we? I can’t go where you want to go.”

“Repressed bloody bastard,” she said.

He looked relieved. “Where to next?”

“Dublin,” Josie said without hesitation. “Sophie met with an art theft expert there. I’m developing a theory.”

“She’s after her missing artifacts.”

“The whispers, the blood—she must be wondering if Jay Augustine was responsible for what happened to her in that cave. At least he’s where he can’t harm her or anyone else.”

“Suppose he had help,” Myles said quietly.

Josie gave him a sharp look, the chill back in her spine. “Myles—what do you know?”

“Drive on, love. It’s a long way to Dublin.”

Boston, Massachusetts

Bob O’Reilly shoved a hand through his hair as he stood on the cracked sidewalk in front of Cliff Rafferty’s house and glared at Scoop. “You and your archaeologist haven’t been back in town twenty-four hours, and you find a cop swinging from a beam in his dining room. Hell of a homecoming.”

Scoop didn’t blame him for being annoyed and frustrated, but his focus was on Sophie. She’d finished talking with two homicide detectives—who hadn’t known Rafferty—and was in the shade of the oak tree at the edge of the walk. She’d stood up well to the pressures of the past couple hours. He had secured the scene before the first cruiser had arrived, but with the bomb-making materials in Rafferty’s dining room, the FBI and ATF had
rolled in right behind the BPD. The medical examiner was there. The crime lab. The district attorney’s office. Onlookers from the neighborhood were behind yellow tape.

It was a mess.

“I could have stopped her from coming over here,” Scoop said half to himself.

“How?” Bob asked, skeptical.

“I could have cited police business.”

“She’s a Ph.D. She’d have seen right through you and come anyway.”

“I could have taken her car keys and flung them down a drain.”

Bob rubbed the back of his neck, looking less irritated and agitated. “You didn’t let her come out here alone. That’s one thing, anyway.”

“Yeah, Bob. Sure.”

“So, Scoop,” he said, “was Rafferty on your radar? You’ve been working on something. You were before this. Before the bomb.”

“If I’d had anything on Rafferty, I’d have arrested him. He wouldn’t be dead.”

Bob had been a police officer for a very long time, and his eyes showed his experience as he narrowed them on Scoop. “You were onto a cop connection to local thugs before Norman Estabrook set his sights on Abigail. Those bastards who grabbed her had someone on the inside. You had that in mind when you looked at the lists we compiled of people who’d been to the house in the days before the bomb went off.”

“Any ongoing special investigation changed the minute that bomb exploded and we became personally involved.”

Bob ignored him. “Cliff’s name get your attention?”

“There were a lot of names on those lists. There was no evidence.”

“There’s evidence now.”

Scoop felt the warmth of the sun on his bare head. His exposed scars might as well have been on fire. “Unless it was planted.”

“Another cop, Scoop?”

“I’ve been walking the Scottish and Irish hills for the past month. You tell me.”

Sophie turned, her skin grayish as her bright blue eyes focused on him and Bob. Scoop wondered how much she’d overheard. As obviously shaken and disturbed by Rafferty’s death as she was, she’d maintained her composure, answering questions, keeping any theories to herself unless asked.

Bob crooked a finger at her, and she came over to them. Strands of her dark red hair fell in her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. He said, “Tell me how you ended up here.”

She motioned toward Rafferty’s front door. “I told the detectives—”

“Tell me.”

She debated a moment, then nodded. “All right.”

Scoop kept quiet, watching and listening as she spoke. She was precise, detailed and objective in her description of events. He could picture her in front of a university classroom or at an archaeological excavation—smart, professional—but he could sense her underlying emotions. Shock, revulsion, fear—and just the slightest hint, again, not so much of lies and deception but of incompleteness.

She was leaving out something.

“The skulls,” Bob said. “What do they mean?”

“I can only tell you what I know, in general, about their significance to prehistoric Celts. They believed the head was the source of a person’s strength and power. Warriors would decapitate enemies in battle and string the heads on their belts and around the necks of their horses.”

“Okay. What about nailing skulls to a door?”

“The same. Heads tacked to the entry of homes were a status symbol. There was probably a ritualistic, magical purpose. The scene upstairs seems to be an attempt to create a sacred space, with the skulls marking the border between the physical and the spiritual world.”

“Why?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what whoever tacked up those skulls had in mind. The supernatural was an ever-present force in the lives of the Celts. They made little distinction between gods and ordinary humans, the living and the dead. Gods could become men and men become gods.”

Bob scratched the side of his mouth for a second, digesting Sophie’s explanation. “What about the disassembled gun in the pot?”

“The broken weapon of the warrior.”

“A police officer,” Scoop interjected.

Sophie glanced at him, and he saw the strain in her eyes. But she stayed focused as she turned back to Bob. “Placing the pieces of the gun in the pot could be the killer’s way of symbolically appropriating the power of the owner.”

“We don’t know yet Cliff was killed,” Bob said. “He was retired. He didn’t have any power.”

“He had a gun. He had decades of experience as a police officer. He was a private security guard for a wealthy couple.”

“Fair enough. The glass beads?”

“Glass beads are often found in Celtic graves. Torcs are, too, but in this case, the broken torc could identify a vanquished enemy. Then there’s the manner of death.” She took a breath and looked out at the street, as if just needing to see something normal. “Hanging and strangulation were used in conducting ritualistic human sacrifice.”

Bob glanced at Scoop, then back at Sophie. “Great,” he said without enthusiasm.

“Human remains aren’t my area of expertise, but remarkably intact corpses have been discovered in the bogs of Europe. The anaerobic conditions preserve organic material. As it happens, the Celts often made votive offerings in wet places. I have colleagues who specialize in peatland archaeology.”

“So bogs were a natural choice to dump a body?” Bob made a face. “What, you’ve examined murder victims from 300 B.C.?”

She gave him a small smile. “Not me personally. We now know there was never a pan-European Celtic culture with a central government. The Celts were a collection of warring tribes who shared a similar culture and language. We have only limited understanding of the practices I’m describing. The Celts didn’t leave us with a written record. Theirs was an oral tradition.”

“What do you go on, then?”

“The archaeological record and descriptions of contemporary Classical writers.”

“The Romans?”

She nodded. “Ireland was never conquered by Rome, but the Celts of mainland Europe and Great Britain were. Obviously they were enemies, which undoubtedly colors Roman perceptions of the Celts. We also have ancient epic pagan tales written down by Early Medieval Irish monks. They’re an important source, but, of course, they’re a mix of fantasy, mythology, legend—”

“And a lot of BS, too, probably. I get it,” Bob said. “One of the crime lab technicians is a pagan. Nicest, happiest person you’d ever want to meet.”

“What I just witnessed has nothing to do with modern pagans or Celtic revivalists.”

Bob nodded. “I get your point.”

“Am I free to leave?” Sophie asked.

“Yeah, go on. We’ll find you if we have more questions.”

She glanced at Scoop, then headed straight for her car.

“Hell, Scoop,” Bob said on a breath. “That’s one creepy scene up there. So what
were
you thinking, coming out here with her?”

“I wasn’t thinking I’d find Rafferty dead.”

Just as Sophie reached the street, a car screeched to a stop. Frank Acosta, a robbery detective and Rafferty’s former partner, jumped out, ducked under the crime-scene tape and charged in front of her, blocking her path to her sister’s Mini.

“I figured he’d show up,” Bob muttered next to Scoop.

In his late thirties, Acosta was known as one of the better-looking detectives in the department with his dark hair, dark eyes and what Abigail, an otherwise hard-driving, sensible woman, had tried to explain to both Bob and Scoop was a crooked, sexy smile. She’d never had any interest in Acosta, she’d said. She was just explaining.

That was last spring, when Frank Acosta had come to the attention of internal affairs for sexual indiscretions. He had treaded the line but hadn’t crossed it, and he’d been warned to clean up his act. But he was no fan of internal affairs.

He was clearly emotional as he inserted himself between Sophie and her car. “You’re the archaeologist who found Cliff?” He choked out the words. “What happened? I just saw him yesterday afternoon. We had coffee. He was fine.”

“Hold on, Frank,” Bob called to him.

Acosta pretended not to hear him. “Then you show up, and now he’s dead.”

“I saw him this morning,” Sophie said softly, “and he was fine then, too. I’m so sorry. I can see he was—”

“We worked together for two years. I’ve known him since I
was a rookie.” Acosta glared at Rafferty’s house as if somehow it had betrayed him. He was grim, covering his grief with anger and aggression “I hear you’re just in from Ireland. You’re an expert in Celtic Iron Age art.”

“That’s right.”

“You can recognize real artifacts from fakes?”

Scoop resisted any urge to jump in. Acosta was deliberately trying to catch Sophie off guard. “It depends,” she said, cool and controlled—more the academic at work than someone who’d just walked in on her first hanging victim. “What kind of artifacts are we talking about?”

“I don’t know. Hypothetical artifacts. Celtic, say.”

“‘Celtic’ is a general term. Even scholars argue about its meaning. Celtic can describe an Iron Age brooch from France, or an Early Medieval Christian chalice from Ireland—or a shawl in a Harvard Square gift shop.”

It was just the sort of response that Acosta would take as smart-ass. He inhaled sharply, and Scoop found himself moving toward Sophie. Bob stayed back and watched, undoubtedly missing nothing.

Acosta didn’t let up. “Let’s say we’re talking about hypothetical Irish Celtic Iron Age artifacts. Would you know if they were authentic?”

“It depends,” she said, guarded. “I certainly can recognize an authentic Celtic design, but unprovenanced pieces can be difficult to date with any certainty. It’s problematic when archaeological evidence has been moved from its original site—whether it happened a hundred years ago or a few months ago.”

“Same in our line of work,” Acosta said, less combative.

Bob unwrapped a stick of gum. “What’s going on, Frank?”

Acosta kept his gaze on Sophie as he answered. “We discov
ered missing inventory in the Augustine showroom—you know Cliff worked security there until he officially retired three weeks ago. We brought in a kid last week who worked there part-time before Augustine’s arrest. He said he saw gold Celtic artifacts in the climate-controlled vault. They’re not there now. No record of them. Nothing.”

“How did he know these pieces were Celtic?” Sophie asked.

Acosta made a spiral motion with one finger. “The swirls.”

She nodded. “The curvilinear motif is a signature feature of Celtic design—spirals, circles, knots, tendrils, the play of symmetry and asymmetry. It’s a truly great artistic legacy. Do you have photographs of these pieces? A specific description, their provenance—”

“I just got this kid’s word. They weren’t logged in properly. He saw them in late May—well before anyone knew Augustine wasn’t just a respected art dealer—and didn’t think about them again until we went through the vault with him. Charlotte Augustine says she never saw them and knows nothing about them.”

Sophie was very still, pale and visibly shaken but no longer shivering. “Does this kid know when these pieces first came into the Augustines’ possession?”

“No idea. Strange, though. Here’s this kid pointing out missing inventory, and now here you are, an expert in Celtic archaeology fresh from Ireland.” Acosta pointed up to the second floor of the house. “And here’s Cliff dead.”

She stared at him a moment, as if debating how to respond, then turned to Bob. “Am I still free to leave?”

“Hold on,” Acosta said, obviously ready to jump on Bob if he interfered. “How do we know you’re not a collector who’ll do anything to get your hands on Celtic artifacts? How do we know
you’re not representing a collector—someone who wants the real thing and doesn’t care about legal niceties?”

Sophie tilted her head back. “Are you asking me?”

Acosta acted as if he didn’t hear her. “How do we know you didn’t sneak over here this morning, kill Cliff and stage the scene?”

“I gave the investigating detectives the paper he handed to me this morning with his address—”

“He could have given it to you last night when you stopped by the Carlisle house. Yeah. I can see you’re surprised. Cliff e-mailed me after you left.” Acosta crossed his arms on his chest, staying between Sophie and her car. He looked hot, irritated. “How would you be able to tell our hypothetical Celtic Iron Age artifacts weren’t something you could pick up at Pier 1 or a Celtic revival fair?”

“As I said, by various means.”

“Would you bring in an expert like yourself?”

“I wouldn’t. I’m not a dealer or a collector—”

“Ever advise dealers or collectors?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Friends?”

“No.”

“Anyone dealing in stolen or illegally obtained artifacts would have to know what to look for, that it’s valuable, who to sell to. Are authentic Celtic Iron Age gold artifacts in high demand?”

“It wouldn’t matter if they’re considered national treasure—”

“Forget that part.”

“I can’t give you a definitive answer. It’s not my area of expertise.”

Acosta wasn’t ready to quit, and Bob, as a senior officer, wasn’t ready to shut him up. Neither was Sophie, who could have walked away. Scoop wasn’t sure why she didn’t. He suspected it had to do with whatever she was holding back.

His dark eyes steady on her, Acosta kept going. “Did you slip something out of a dig to make a profit, then get cold feet when Augustine turned up as a killer?”

“No, I did not,” Sophie said.